


Tilt

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-29
Updated: 2006-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler's just the little brother, but that doesn't mean he's blind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilt

"You don't like me, do you?" The words are soft and fluid, his accent heavier than normal, but otherwise he's standing in Josh's kitchen as though he owns it. He graces Tyler with an open smile; but even as proudly as he's standing, it doesn't look practiced or artificial, no matter how much Tyler wants it to be.

Tyler's not all that surprised by the question. He's not actively hostile, but he's also not going out of his way to respond to any of the overtures Ricky's been extending.

"It's not really any of my business," he says, while he refills his coffee. Josh does what he wants, with whoever he wants. That's the way it's always been, but this, this is… different.

Tyler's just the little brother, but that doesn't mean he's blind. He knows Ricky will find the ceramic teapot, the one that's yellow and blue and red, hand-painted and too damn bright for the morning, but that Josh loves nonetheless. He'll go through the precise, finicky ritual of mixing the three kinds of tea that Josh is geeked about this month, waiting until the kettle is screaming before adding the water and letting the tea steep for exactly seven minutes. He probably won't find the mugs that match the teapot, because Josh will have left them someplace odd and they won't surface until the cleaning service comes later in the week, so he'll use whatever's in the cabinets and stare Josh down if he mentions it. He'll carry everything down to where Josh is sitting on the dock, pretending to fish, but really only watching the sun on the water, and they'll sit there and talk until the gnats and the flies drive them back inside.

Tyler knows Josh will disappear into the studio to obsess over today's song and Ricky will work out and then deal with his business, the low rush of Spanish filling the house as he wanders around with his phone. Ricky won't hassle Josh about always being in the studio, or not paying attention to him while he's in Winter Park, or any one of a dozen things Tyler's seen other people give Josh a hard time about. Whenever Josh stumbles out of the studio, regardless of the time, Ricky will wake up or hang up the phone, turn off the computer, stop whatever he's doing and focus on Josh, like they just finished breakfast.

Tyler can see all that, but it doesn't blind him to the blurred rings of purple and green and yellow around Josh's wrists, the darker shadows on his collarbone and neck, not quite hidden by his shirts, or the smudges on his hips that Tyler occasionally sees when Josh is climbing out of the pool or stretched out on a deck chair.

He looks across the kitchen, meets Ricky's eyes squarely and says, "No, not really."

***

The private jet to Rio doesn't bother Josh, which kind of surprises Tyler. Neither does the car that's been sent to pick them up at the airport. He hits his stride at the hotel, though, fussing at the front desk, politely but firmly declining to check in until he's assured that the bill will be sent to him. After that, he's fine on the surface when they get up to the penthouse suite, wandering through the rooms, checking out the view, calling Tyler out onto the balcony to watch the Carnaval crowds throng the streets below, but Tyler recognizes the stubborn set to his mouth.

Tyler stays out on the balcony when Josh goes in to answer the door. He knows the warning signs; he might as well watch the costumes and drag queens while things sort themselves out inside. It's a good call--he's just getting comfortable when the balcony doors open again and the entourage files out. Manager, bodyguard, and another guy, maybe the friend Josh is always talking about, the one who plays congas in the band. It's not as if he cares, and he knows they're about as happy to see him and Josh as he is to be here. He leans back and props his feet up on the stone railing so he'll at least be comfortable while they all wait around.

They do the introduction thing, and the bodyguard pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Tyler before he and the manager light up. The manager lets his burn down in favor of issuing a stream of orders into his cell phone. The other two lean on the balcony, laughing occasionally at the more outrageous costumes.

"Every year," the bodyguard says. "Crazier and crazier." Tyler's not sure if he's talking about Rio itself or the party Ricky hosts, but he nods anyway. It probably doesn't matter. He leans back and listens to the idle chatter of samba schools and blocos, bailes and bandas.

Finally, though, some sort of time limit must have been reached, because the other three get up, the manager muttering under his breath about being late while the drummer and bodyguard roll their eyes and open the French doors.

And, really, Tyler could have told them they hadn't waited long enough, not given how much Josh hates it when people spend what he deems excessive amounts of money on him. Sure enough, things are still in progress, with Ricky gesturing extravagantly at the street, all but shouting, "It's _Carnaval_. I sent the plane because you had scheduling problems. I _invited_ you and you throw my hospitality in my face, insult me--"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Josh is revving at about a seven, Tyler thinks; just shy of that nasty hissing snarl, but working up to it nicely. "I took the damn plane, because I wanted to come and it wouldn't have worked without it. The rest of this, the hotel and everything else, it isn't fucking necessary, okay?"

Tyler's heard variations on this argument--Josh not doing things the way people want--ever since he got old enough to hang around with Josh on his own. It happened so often when Josh was with Bobbie that Tyler had come up with a rating scale for the tantrums. It made fading into the background when he was around during one of them a hell of a lot more fun, though Bobbie would have clawed his eyes out if she'd ever found out. Eva wasn't nearly as entertaining: she didn't last as long, for one thing--though that's not something Tyler's necessarily torn-up about--and her tantrums were pretty one-note.

Ricky, though; he just looks at Josh, long and even, and says, "Jose's got a car scheduled to pick you up at seven. Is that not necessary?"

"Thanks," Josh says to the balcony in general as he moves to close the door, ignoring the outraged look on the manager's face. "We're almost done here." Right before the doors click shut, Tyler hears Josh say, "I told you; I want to be here."

"_Cojones de acero_," the drummer murmurs laughingly to the bodyguard. He grins at Tyler, switching to English to say, "It's good for him, somebody telling him no occasionally."

Tyler snorts, because whether they're talking about the annoyed manager on the balcony or the diva inside, either way, yeah, Josh is really good at doing what he wants.

When the doors finally open and everyone walks back inside, there's nothing to see but a couple of friends planning how to do Carnaval, at least not if you're pretending not to notice the reddish mark at the base of Josh's neck or the way Ricky's mouth looks swollen.

***

The group they're running with is huge, so Tyler can slide by with nothing more than the occasional guest-to-host interaction. That's fine with him--and probably with Ricky, too. They're both clear that he's in Rio solely because of Josh. Ricky can go to hell as far as Tyler's concerned, but the paparazzi are swarming and it's better they get shots of Josh and him than anyone else.

They travel in a fleet of SUVs, moving through the streets behind tinted glass, taking their places at the samba parade with as much noise and excitement as royalty. The boxes are perfectly placed, so close they can almost lean out and touch the schools as they dance by. The drums and the crowds and the pure joy of the scene swirl the energy higher and higher and Tyler can't dance worth shit, but it's impossible not to be moving. It's too loud to catch names and the glass in Tyler's hand is never empty, until the whole world blurs into the rhythms of the samba.

Josh floats, sometimes with Tyler, sometimes up at the windows with Ricky, but nothing that would raise anyone's eyebrows. It's always bugged Tyler, Josh having to act like that, always thinking about who sees what, but he has to admit, between the drums and the feathers and the body paint, it really is one hell of a party and he doesn't get to spend a lot of time with Josh these days.

The sun is well up before the parade ends and they stumble out of the boxes to find the cars. They won't be seen leaving with Ricky, of course, but Josh knows exactly which car and driver are theirs. The third guy from the balcony--the drummer, Danny, Tyler thinks he's got the name right--he and his girlfriend ride with Tyler and Josh. It's only the four of them and they keep the windows down so they can watch the crowds in the streets, let in the smell of the sea and the soft morning air.

They spill out of the cars at the hotel, people scattering to elevators and stairs, most of them still smiling and laughing despite the long night. Danny's girlfriend kisses them both before she dances off behind him. Josh drapes himself over Tyler's back, giggling in his lunatic way that little brothers are handy sometimes, especially when you're too tired to walk. Tyler staggers under the sudden weight, muttering, "Give me one good reason I shouldn't drop your sorry ass," but they both know it's just for show. He hauls Josh off the elevator and dumps him on the first bed he finds in the suite, thankful that housekeeping has the curtains drawn and it's as dark as night. Clearly, they have the whole Carnaval thing under control here.

It's still that artificial dark when Tyler wakes, and the clock says it's not that much later than when he fell into bed. He's still drunk enough to get confused by the layout of the suite, turning the wrong way after he finishes in the bathroom and ending up in the living room, right inside the door, when he meant to be back in his bedroom.

"Yeah, oh, fuck, yeah, like that, _fuck_, so good," Josh is saying, his voice ragged and hoarse, and Tyler freezes. The curtains aren't quite pulled together, and the tiny sliver of sunlight that leaks in is enough that he can see Josh, see how Ricky has him on the floor, shoulders and head down, arms pulled up behind his back.

"_Cachonda_," Ricky growls, laughing low and dirty when Josh hisses at him. "_Mi puta_."

In the split-second before his eyes snap closed and he stumbles back out of the room, Ricky's hand is burned into Tyler's brain, how big it looks, how easily it holds both of Josh's wrists. In his bed, door closed, he can't stop seeing it, can't stop hearing Ricky's low laugh, nasty and triumphant.

It keeps him awake long into the day, and when he does sleep, it's so restlessly that the afternoon doesn't seem real even after he showers, especially when he steels himself to walk back into the living room and finds Ricky sprawled out on their couch, his feet propped on the coffee table and Josh asleep on his lap.

Hearing Tyler, Ricky opens his eyes, smiles down at Josh. "Carnaval," he says, shaking his head and smoothing his hand along Josh's shoulder, down his arm, waking him.

"Lazy," Ricky murmurs, then laughs at the self-satisfied smirk Josh answers him with. Watching Josh return the smile, Tyler can almost believe he'd seen nothing more than too much caipirinha, too much samba.

Then Josh stretches and winces as he gets his arm over his head, breath hissing out on a long, low curse and Tyler can't pretend, no matter how much he wants to. Ricky kneads at Josh's shoulder, asking, "Here?" and Tyler needs to get the hell out of the room. He won't be responsible for his actions if he has to watch the hands that invaded his sleep faking concern and assistance.

***

The folks are beyond happy that Challenge weekend is in Chicago this year. Tyler's less excited, since he spends half his time making sure this aunt or that cousin don't get lost in the shuffle, but all the hassle turns out to be worth it, for the breakfast scene that's playing out in Josh's suite right now.

"Fucking kill me now," Chris mutters to Tyler, jerking his head toward the other three as he liberally spikes his coffee from a hip flask of Jack Daniels. "Stone cold sober and I'm trapped in a chick flick. There is no justice." Tyler has to agree. Between Tony radiating disapproval, Ricky all but smirking at his annoyance and Josh pretending nothing's wrong, Tyler wouldn't be surprised if Meg Ryan walked in next.

It's not often that Tyler sees Josh even the tiniest bit off-balance, but he supposes that having every guy you've ever slept with in the same room is enough to tweak anybody's calm. Especially when the least of your worries is Chris Kirkpatrick with a hangover.

Tyler actually knew about Chris and Josh before he knew for sure about Tony. Josh had been kind of messed up when he got back from LA, but Tyler had still been a kid, so it took a while to figure things out, piece the clues together. It wasn't until the lawsuit, when he was a couple years older, that things started falling into place, and it was Justin, of all people, who filled him in on a lot.

Tyler felt for Justin back then, caught in the middle of it all, friends with everyone involved. He's always thought that Justin was the reason Josh had stubbornly remained in touch with Tony, even if he never once seemed tempted to try to make it work between them again.

Josh doesn't actually talk about stuff, and Chris isn't the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, but Tyler still thinks they worked pretty well together. He guesses they were more friends than anything, but Chris is always there for Josh and that's really all Tyler cares about.

Josh is dealing pretty well with the current soap opera, Tyler will give him that, but Tony and Ricky are like dogs circling a bone and CK isn't the only one with a hangover. Tyler digs the bottle of aspirin out of his bag, handing it off to Josh as he heads into the bathroom for water. He misses whatever Tony says, but it has Chris choking on his Jack and coffee and Ricky's eyes shooting sparks.

Since there are apparently doubts as to who has territorial rights these days, Ricky, after shaking his head at Josh's fairly pathetic attempts to deal with the childproof cap on the aspirin, takes the bottle away from him, opening it and shaking out a couple of pills to hand back. Josh practically snatches the water out of Tyler's hand, draining it in a single breath.

Ricky rubs the back of Josh's neck, and whatever Tony said must have been good for there to be actual contact. Chris leans over to Tyler to say, "Is it just me, or can you hear his teeth grinding?" He cuts his eyes toward Tony and Tyler smothers a grin at the wicked gleam in his eyes. Just when things are really getting good, though, the same bodyguard from Rio knocks on the door. Tyler must rate as passable; he gets a brief nod from the guy, who otherwise looks none too happy to see the rest of the people in the room.

Josh leans back into Ricky for a second, but then shifts to the side to let him stand up, and the bodyguard looks even less happy when Lance walks in as they're walking out. It's probably best that the door closes before Lance drawls, "Damn, C, Ricky Martin?" at the same time Chris looks at Josh and says, "Dude, bon-bon boy?"

Josh flops back on the couch and pulls a pillow over his head, flipping Chris off blindly. Tony snorts and Tyler thinks he might actually be about to say something that will get him crossed off the Christmas card list, because he looks like he's just noticed that he stepped in something nasty, but any chance of that is lost when Lance asks, "Did you get his autograph for Kelly?"

Chris laughs. "Bass, please. Have you seen that ass? You think our boy was wasting time trying to find a _pen_?"

"Fuck _off_," Josh says from underneath the pillow, adding a second finger for emphasis, but Chris laughs harder.

"Not until you give it up, Chasez." He looks at Tyler speculatively. "Then again, Little C is here and clearly friends with the hired muscle and has always been receptive to, shall we say..."

"Bribery," Lance interjects.

"That's such an ugly word," Chris answers, grinning at Tyler. "Accurate, but ugly."

Josh sits up and glares. "Also accurate would be 'traitor' and 'sell-out' and 'if you say one word, Tyler, I swear to God, I'll give Mom a full set of pictures from your graduation party, and your private number, Chris, so she can thank you for the strippers you sent.'"

Chris smirks. "He's such a bitchy little twink when he's hung-over." He drops the idea in favor of harassing Lance about his lack of basketball skills, though. Josh throws the phone to Tony to order room service and everything slides back to what passes for normal. It's just as well, because Tyler's not sure he would have been able to keep his opinions to himself and this isn't the time to open that bushel of worms.

***

The plan has always been to keep his mouth shut, because it's not his life, and there's nothing that gets Josh pissier than interference, but Tyler's not wired like that, never has been. It's stupid that something as minor as Josh wanting to reschedule dinner sets him off, but the words are flying out of Tyler's mouth on their own.

"No," he's saying, and he can't shut up. "We wouldn't want to inconvenience the diva, would we."

He should have been thinking about how to say what he's needed to say, not just living in denial and hoping things would get better by themselves, because now he's shot his mouth off and he's stuck; there's no getting around the look on Josh's face.

"Yeah," Josh says, slowly. "About that. What the hell is your issue with him? You've been on his ass, right from the start, and the attitude is starting to piss me off."

"My issue? Singular? I only get one?" Tyler laughs, short and sharp. He still should back off; he knows this in some tiny part of his brain, but there's no way he's stopping now. "Yeah, I guess I can do that." He crosses the room quickly and grabs Josh's arm, pushing up the sleeve of his hoodie. "This." He rubs his thumb over the inside of Josh's wrist, where the skin is thinnest and the marks are darkest. "It's been, what? Two weeks since he's been here, and I can still see what he does to you."

Josh jerks his arm away, steps back and away from Tyler. "He didn't--I'm not--" His eyes are dark and flat.

"I can let a lot of shit slide, Josh. Bobbie and her queen bitch routine; the way Eva likes to jerk her boys around; Tony still acting like he's waiting for the right time to snap his fingers so you'll come running back… hell, I don't care if you and Ricky want to be each other's dirty little secret." He stops and takes a deep breath, then says flatly, "But I can't pretend I don't see the bruises and the bites and scratches just so the guy who does it to you can feel like he's my pal."

"If I wanted him to stop, he would," Josh says quietly. "No questions, no hassles."

"It doesn't fucking _matter_." The words come boiling out of him, all the months of biting them back, pushing things down accomplishing nothing but making him more out of control now. "I don't care if you got down on your knees and begged him for it; he's still the one who didn't say no, he's still the one who did it."

"Ty." Josh rubs his hand along Tyler's arm, as though Tyler is the one who's hurt. "It's not anything big. You got banged up worse playing ball in high school."

"Don't." Tyler shakes his head. "Don't fucking patronize me because I'm scared for you and don't _ever_ make excuses for him to me."

"I'm not," Josh answers. "I swear to God I'm not in trouble." Tyler looks hard at him, searches for anything that's seems off, no matter how faint. Josh looks back, without blinking. "I--we're good," he says. "This is," he starts, and then lifts his hand, takes Tyler's hand and puts his wrist in it. "This is me," he says simply. "I want this, I _like_ this."

_No, you don't,_ Tyler wants to yell. _You can't._ He wants to scream as loudly as he can, like when they were kids and Josh would make the things from Tyler's nightmares go away, but Josh is still looking at him and Tyler doesn't have to say a thing.  
"Ty," Josh says. "I'm--it's okay."

Tyler wants to believe him. Josh has always been the one who could answer any question Tyler ever had, the one who could solve any problem--but this one, Tyler's not sure anyone can fix.

"What about if this," he says, tracing the faded marks on Josh's wrist, "goes too far?" He raises his eyes to meet Josh's. "What then?"

"It won't," Ricky says from the doorway, and Tyler knows without asking that he's heard enough to know what's going on.

"Right," Tyler says. "I'll just trust you on that."

"Do you think I'm playing a game here?" Ricky says, his voice rising. There's no charm, no smiles now, only a heavy glower that Tyler's sure is supposed to intimidate him.

"Do you think I fucking _care?_"

"Ty--" Josh starts, but Tyler isn't close to finished.

"You tell me," he says, looking straight at Ricky. "What if you want more or he wants more or you think he wants more, or, Jesus, how many fucked-up scenarios do you want me to come up with?" Josh has him by the arm; it's all Tyler can do not to shake him off. "No," he snaps to Josh. "I want to hear his answer, because so far, I haven't heard a goddamned thing to make me think that walking away is what I should be doing."

Josh spins Tyler around to face him, saying, "Don't make this be about him," and shit, Tyler hates the hard distance in Josh's eyes. They've never been this far apart, never.

"Who the fuck is it about if it's not--"

"Me," Josh interrupts, and the word almost echoes in the sudden silence. "This is all about me; it's just easier for you to pretend that it's about him," he finishes quietly. His face is bleak and unforgiving and Tyler wants to throw up, can feel the bile, hot and burning in the back of this throat.

Josh lets go of Tyler, turns away. Everything's distant and muffled; Tyler's alone with the fear that there's nothing he can do or say that will make things right again. He should go; he's already said too many of the wrong things, let the worry and anger and fear take over. He should go, before he says more and makes this gulf between him and Josh unbearably wider. He should go, but he can't seem to move.

"Ty," Josh is saying. "_Tyler_."

Tyler blinks at him, and Josh stares back. "I'm sorry," Josh says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I shouldn't have said--"

"Don't," Tyler says, shaking his head. "Just… don't. You meant it; it's better you said it." He doesn't say "we," but he doesn't have to.

The anger in Josh's eyes is gone, but the sadness that's replaced it is worse, Tyler thinks. The room is quiet again, empty except for them. Tyler wonders if he should care where Ricky is, and then decides that it doesn't matter.

"Look, we can talk tomorrow or whenever, I don't know your schedule--" He backs away, moving blindly toward the door. "You, I've screwed up your night enough, just call me or, or whatever."

Josh lets him go, and Tyler can't decide if he should be grateful or not.

***

They're always different with each other in LA. Maybe it's because Josh seriously works when he's there, works constantly with producers and writing partners, has people in and out of the house, lays down tracks in the middle of the night if that's when he gets the vibe. He works in Florida, too, but it's less focused there, somehow.

Josh calls and Tyler returns the call, and nothing's really said, but Tyler calls again and gets voicemail because Josh forgot to charge the phone and doesn't get a callback for a couple of days, and life moves on.

Iit's easy to pretend that everything's not fucked all to hell and back, that they aren't just existing on forward momentum, inertia, coasting because Tyler can't remember a time when he and Josh weren't friends and brothers, and he doesn't think Josh can either.

They talk some; they even hang out, but only if other people are there to buffer the silences. All Tyler expects when he gets the voicemail about watching the game is to be part of a crowd, but when he walks into the house, it's only Josh in front of the big plasma TV.

Maybe it's a step, or maybe it's more of the inertia; Tyler only knows he doesn't want to ask, that he's afraid of what he might hear as an answer.

"Good timing," Josh says, his voice and face and body language trying too hard to be normal, but it's so much better than the distance since that night that Tyler almost doesn't care. "They're lining up for the kickoff; there's beer in the kitchen."

There's also Ricky in the kitchen, clearly only recently awake and fumbling with the coffeemaker. Tyler grabs two bottles out of the refrigerator, twisting the tops off and turning around to leave as quickly as he can.

"Tyler," Ricky says, his voice low and not entirely friendly.

Tyler thinks about not stopping, pretending he didn't hear anything, but he's pretty sure Ricky wouldn't mind at all if he did just that. It's enough to make him pause at the door and look back.

"Your brother is important to me," Ricky says finally.

"Yeah," Tyler answers. "He's important to me, too."

Ricky's hands tighten on the counter, knuckles whitening, and when he answers, it's through gritted teeth. "It wasn't something I expected; _he_ wasn't what I expected." His eyes are fierce and dark. "You think I don't know what a gift this all is?"

That's pretty much exactly what Tyler thinks, but he wonders if Ricky knows that he's echoing what Karen's always said about Josh, that he was a gift. Tyler waits, but Ricky doesn't have anything else to say, so he finally nods and goes back to watch the game.

***

"JC," Ricky says from the door.

"Yeah, you have rehearsals, yeah, got it," Josh answers, waving at him without taking his eyes off Brunell dropping back in the pocket. Tyler wants to laugh at how exactly like Roy Josh suddenly sounds.

Ricky walks into the room, stopping precisely where he can block Josh's view of the TV. Tyler's pretty sure this isn't the first Redskins game he's experienced. "After rehearsals, there's--"

"Yeah, got the schedule from Jose; you have stuff," Josh says, leaning left and right, but Ricky doesn't move. "You're not being funny, Enrique." Josh glares until the game goes to commercial and he bounces up. "Two minutes, Kiki. Two."

"I'm honored," Ricky says as he follows Josh out of the room. From where he's sitting, Tyler can see them talking at the front door. He doesn't mean to intrude, but they're kissing before he can look away, quick and light and then Ricky's turning to go and Josh is slapping his ass as he yells back in to Tyler, "You need a fresh one?"

"You don't have to hide," Tyler says, after the Skins take the ball on the twenty and promptly lose fifteen yards on the opening play of the drive. Josh looks at him blankly. "Earlier, when he left."

"Oh," Josh says, rolling his eyes. "That's him being a freak about being around other people. They did a number on him young; it's ingrained or something."

Tyler thinks about the months of tripping over the two of them, and how it never seemed to be an issue then. "I said a lot of shit that night--"

"It's not that so much," Josh says. "Not all of it, not for him, anyway." He hesitates, and Tyler knows Josh, knows that he's still not happy with Tyler. Then Josh laughs unexpectedly, saying, "Fuck, he says he'd be the same way with Eric, so yeah, whatever, you two can bond over the whole alpha-brother thing."

Tyler snorts, because there really isn't a snowball's chance in hell of any bonding happening. He picks at the dampened label on his bottle of beer. "Thanks," he says. "For calling. It's been weird. Not hanging out."

"It's not you or him. I won't let it be that," Josh answers, his voice soft and stubborn, like Tyler's heard it all his life, answering everything that Tyler didn't say, but meant anyway. "I won't."

Tyler nods, blindly, because he'd thought it had already been that. He sits and looks at the game without seeing, holds his beer until it's warm, and lets Josh bring him another one.

***

O'Hare at Christmas is hell, no two ways about it, and Roy driving in it is an extra-special ring of that hell. Josh suffered through it twice, then got stubborn and, saying that some things are worth spending money for, doesn't ever tell anyone their flights or arrival times, just rents a car and drives them home.

Tyler's not sure Roy stressing might not be worth the buffer. Things are better, but Tyler hates how fragile everything still feels between them. He chooses his words carefully, asking about Ricky to prove that he can say the name without spitting. Josh answers as though they were speaking of no one but a passing acquaintance; offers a bland, Tiger Beat-worthy explanation of family vacations in the Caribbean. Tyler's suddenly tired enough of all the crap to forget his good intentions and say, "He's never gonna come out, Josh."

He half-expects everything to blow up again, but Josh only shrugs and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's not like I'm carrying a banner in the Pride parade, Ty."

"I know, I get it, it's just… it's not…" Tyler leans forward, willing Josh to look over at him.

"It's not a lot of things," Josh says. "It is what it is." He looks in the rearview mirror, changes lanes and edges another hundred feet away from the airport. His next words come out in a rush. "It's a hell of a lot of things I'd given up thinking might happen."

Maybe the darkness makes it easier, or maybe it's just finally time to talk, but Tyler reaches out, touches the wide silver and turquoise bracelet he knows Josh wears to cover bruises and marks. "This still scares the hell out of me, Josh."

"I wish it didn't, Ty." Josh's voice is gentle and sad, and there's not really anything Tyler can say to that. Josh never asks for anything; Tyler's never even heard him so much as wish on a star or birthday candles. The car's warm, but Tyler can feel the cold of a Chicago winter pressing against his window.

"I'm not going anywhere," Tyler says. In front of them, pairs of red lights stretch endlessly; when Tyler looks over at Josh, his profile is silhouetted against the fogged window and Tyler sees him blink again and again, lashes moving quickly.

"I'm glad," Josh says, almost a whisper.

"Me, too," Tyler answers, just as softly. Josh is quiet, but it's a good quiet, the kind they haven't had in months, and Tyler settles himself more firmly next to his brother.


End file.
